2 | Defiance Discipline Dream Repeat

79 Naughty All Year Round - Zander's POV

...Mum returns with an old, dusty cardboard box that hasn't seen the sun for maybe 10 years, with our old ornaments. It's not the box of the new, appealing stuff that Leo and I bought when we lived in this house together. And I'm not happy about it, especially not when I realise half of it; is ugly, tatty crafts made by my sister and me in Nursery or primary school.

''Why is there an old spoon among the ornaments?'' Dad asks.

''Zander baby, was I a bad mum?'' I mimic her. ''You grizzled the other day, but you kept a fucking spoon on display as a threat when we were decorating the tree, which is one of the children's favourite times of the year. It speaks for itself.''

It's clear that Dad finds my little mockery amusing, unlike Mum, and he laughs with me. ''Baby Corbyn got a point.''

She mutters, ''Shut up, you two,'' and turns to sort out the heap of hideous paper snowflakes and painted toilet rolls with glued eyes about to fall off.

''Have you saved an old nappy, too? For the tree?'' I ask dryly. ''I can wipe my ass and thread a string through the wipe for the tree - it gives the same vibe.''

Dad, who doesn't lack humour, cackles whilst Mum rebukes me for being disgusting and insolent.

''That's why I had to keep a spoon, Michael,'' Mum remarks, unamused. ''Vile jokes.''

''If there's one positive trait my children inherited from me - it's banter. All three of them are fucking funny,'' Dad chuckles heartily. ''Like me.''

"I'm the funniest one. Girls aren't funny," I declare and receive disagreement from both of them. For a minute, I watch Mum hang a pinecone sprinkled with silvery glitter - it sheds that glitter because it's thoroughly dried up and old. "Are you seriously gonna put that rubbish in the tree, though?'' I baulk.

''Yes! Look!'' Mum exclaims and holds up a polystyrene ball with smeared paint on it. And on the side, there's a bite mark. ''Your sister made this and painted our family on it. You were teething that winter and got your hands on this and chewed on it.''

''I don't want to decorate it if you're gonna put rubbish in it,'' I grumble.

''Sit there then, and be quiet,'' Mum diverts to the tree, swearing under her breath.

"You've gone mental and gonna scare away Santa with an unlovely tree like that."

"Santa won't come anyway as you've been naughty every single day since you were born," Mum chunters.

"Then how do you explain the presents I've gotten every single year?" I backchat smugly. "Even in prison, we got an apple wrapped in a cheap tissue."

"You're a spoiled big baby."

"You're not getting anything because–"

Dad elbows me, "Zander, don't poke the bear too hard," he murmurs and turns the volume up.

Moaning about how bored I am here, I wait a few minutes until Mum's immersed in decorating the ugly tree and then lean over the armrest of the sofa to pluck the spoon out of the box... What I am about to do might be disrespectful, improper and dangerous, but those three words describe me well, so I don't care.

I lean over the armrest again to reach the spoon out, glancing back at Dad's devilish grin. He mouths for me to be very careful before I turn back to Mum and aim the spoon at her...

''Zander!'' Mum screeches and wrenches around. The screech isn't justified because I merely tapped it on her. I didn't strike her - I have some morals though they are few.

''What?'' I pull off an innocent look, resting back with the spoon hidden between my back and the sofa. ''I've been watching TV with Dad.''

''Michael, did you see what your son did?!''

Dad tries his hardest not to laugh and shakes his head. ''No. What did he do?''

''I didn't do anything!'' I exclaim.

''He hit me with the fucking spoon!''

''Really? He's in such a good mood at the minute."

"Yeah, I'm good and calm," I smile in a way that I know she finds endearing.

''Zander, I'm going to fucking...'' Mum spews and then pauses abruptly, unsure of what to scare me with.

''Going to do what?'' I beam.

''Fucking child,'' she growls. "And stop smiling!"

''Zander baby, do you think I was a bad mum?'' I mimic her again.

''I think you have been and are a bad boy,'' she retorts. "Very bad."

''Yes, proudly so. People are attracted to bad boys because we are, especially me, hot as fuck. Everyone I meet thinks about how badly they want me to be their boyfriend," I brag.

''Everybody who encounters you thinks about how badly you need a thrashing because the bad boy attitude tells them that you weren't put across a knee enough times as a little boy. And it's all your father's fault who didn't let go of his bad boy persona until his 50s,'' she says witheringly.

"You're projecting now. You batty woman," I tut.

''Don't pretend bad boys are not your type, Debs,'' Dad says.

"Maybe when I was 20," she mutters.

"And in your 30s, 40s, 50s and you will continue to fancy bad boys in your 60s and forever," Dad winks at her.

"Just like Alexander," I chime in.

"Yeah, everyone wants a bad boy," Dad chuckles.

Mum's unamused as ever and makes her way out, "Finish this tree now," she prompts.

Looking at the abomination, I get these exciting ideas of what to do with it in my head. "I have an intense urge to set it on fire," I mumble.

"No, but we can go get some new appealing decorations–" Dad drones.

"Can we steal it? Just one bauble?" I suggest.

"No."